A strange mix
by nuclearchinchilla
Summary: "You are going to run out of luck one day, Cowboy."


"You are going to run out of luck one day, Cowboy."

"Is that so? I never thought that I even had any."

Illya scoffs. Of course Napoleon does, he always does survive by a thin thread of near-impossible luck. Then again, he thinks, remembering moments ago, when Napoleon flinched ever so briefly as the cold wind bit the spot in his arm where a bullet had recently been, perhaps Napoleon isn't exactly lucky per se. It could be said of course, that he is lucky to constantly escape death, but a luckier person would not even be met so often with such near-lethal situations (then again, any other person would also be less prideful and obnoxious- key qualities in reducing the occurrence of precarious situations).

Napoleon is, now that Illya gives it thought, a strange mix of lucky and unlucky. Unlucky enough to constantly land in hot water but lucky enough to just as constantly and gracefully escape it.

It's not just luck of course, that has him pull off missions even with the most awry of situations cropping up. It's his fitnesse, his quick thinking, his slippery charm. If nothing he seemed to be getting quicker, both in mind and body, as of late. The glint of his teeth and his eyes more dangerous, almost inhuman, and he seemed to have picked up, from god knows where, the ability to fade in and out of shadows, like darkness was just another well-tailored suit he could easily, so lazily, slip into.

He's lucky too, with females and some such, but Illya is dismissive of such a quality. While sometimes useful, it often just feeds what Illya saw as Napoleon's key weakness. He can charm them into bed without speaking a word of their language, and he would make it look like he was ever so idle, that he doesn't need them, they need him, but the actual fact is the diametric opposite. When they were stuck out in some far-off safe house with only each other, Illya had seen the way his facade of silken grace would unravel from him. His hands would twitch and his body tremble, racked with cold sweat, going steadily paler and gaunter with wilder, almost haunted, eyes. He would look hungry, but a strange kind of hungry, not one which any amount of food could fix. A condition that curiously, could only be fixed with intimate company.

When Illya saw "serial womanizer" in Napoleon's file, he failed to understand such a seemingly trivial quality, weakness though it was, could warrant mention in such a file. It took a while for him to realize that only Napoleon Solo, decadent and indulgent bastard he was, could turn such a simple weakness into a full blown addiction.

It isn't just luck of course, with females. It's luck too actually, with _them_. The males who seek a crime, who seek sin, who make Illya almost sick to the stomach with their slimy, unabashed behavior. Who, as Illya has to tell himself, are to be charmed by Napoleon when he has to, when the mission calls for it. Napoleon isn't one of _them_ , he just has to take one for the team sometimes, which should only make it honorable. Illya tells himself that, and tries to ignore the many times that Napoleon has charmed them when there was no mission to, when females were quite definitely around. He tries to ignores the many times that he had thought of Napoleon in ways he shouldn't, when Gaby was quite definitely around. He reminds himself of his hatred, and tries harder to remember who he must hate (it's them Illya must hate, and certainly not Napoleon for the way he looks at them but not at Illya, and most certainly not Illya himself).

It should come as no surprise then, to Illya, that Napoleon Solo, being the disgusting fop he is, also plays with the company of demons and devils. There's talk, after Napoleon has debugged their rooms and had one too many drinks, about how much he should be able to get from his infernal contacts "in exchange for" his soul, and then stealing that soul right back from under their noses. And talk too, of less risky deals, but of course those interest Napoleon less. Illya had scoffed, decided that Napoleon was just a tad imaginative when drunk, but when he starts getting brought along as backup, there's no denying what his eyes see, that what he sees is inhuman. He learns information he knows not what to do with. Like an interesting one from an acquaintance of Napoleon's, that apparently a decade ago the America had spoken of a plan, some loopholes, some leverage, which would make sure that if he does lose his soul, he doesn't get damned to hell immediately like any other soulless human, or even damned after death. Soulless Napoleon would become, as he put it, something else entirely.

The missions blur together. They're in an open-topped convertible trundling down Paris. Napoleon's black curls shone from care borne of vanity and the light of dusk. The car is packing more people than it should, and Illya finds himself squeezed up right next to Napoleon. Beyond Napoleon's lean figure, the city woke and in front of them both are their catty marks- driving, laughing, gossiping lewd insinuations about the two men pressed together, and Illya tries to let it all wash over like the black water that splashes off their tires onto the side streets. Nevertheless, his hand starts twitching. Napoleon holds it and squeezes it softly, his gaze still affixed on the horizon. Perhaps with any other person, Illya would have been angered, angered that someone had shown something close to pity for him. But with Napoleon, he was terrified, terrified precisely because he should be angry but he's not, and instead feels something close to warm and appreciative curl within him. Then Napoleon turns towards him and smiles, and the fear almost turns into full on panic flashing across his face.

But then Napoleon shoots him something quizzical, squeezing his hand harder and then opting instead to curl his index finger against- oh. Illya gets the hint and looks down at the curled finger against the back of his palm. The unmistakeable gleam of a ring of devil's brass, to match Napoleon's gleaming smile of triumph. No doubt pickpocketed from his most recent infernal encounter.

Illya lets out the breath he doesn't even know he had been holding. It's not that, he read the hand-holding and smiling wrongly. Napoleon was not getting at that, he'd never with Illya. He feels a wounding pain. That's not relief, he realizes. Illya should be relieved but relief shouldn't hurt. So he chooses instead to focus on other feelings and other things, like that ring. An entirely different darkness crosses his face when he does.

"You should not play games," he hisses into Napoleon's ear, "Will lose luck one day. And lose soul."

Napoleon says nothing. He purses his lips into a thin smile and looks back out at the scenery. No snarky one-liner, no attempt at a retort. Illya tries to let the surprise show.

When Illya finally puts two and two together, he feels the same pain he tries to term relief. Of course Napoleon would still charm males off-mission- he actually likes women but males are simply necessary for his infernal survival, his demonic hunger, a pure necessity that speaks nothing of Napoleon's character.

Illya decides to be blunt about it. He sees no reason for false pretenses of so-called subtlety- acts Napoleon so dearly loved.

"You already lost game and luck. And soul. But you used leverage to become incubus," he states.

When Napoleon laughs at that, it's a sudden sharp bark from the back of his throat, from somewhere deeper beyond his facade of ease, something oozing bitterness and regret.

"Used that leverage? Alex told you about that plan? Well of course I did. But really, there's no such thing as incubi, Peril."

The last man Napoleon uses tastes of anchovies (not on his breath, it's something else deeper inside everyone and everyone tastes different). And sated he was, but still he wrinkles his nose at the thought of it. He hates anchovies. Actually, come to think of it, he remembers a time when he didn't mind it and that time really wasn't all that long ago. It must be that tasting people was getting old, maybe the quality of humans had even slipped or maybe he's just too distracted by the thought of how his partner would taste like.

"You remember, when you asked if I were a demon?"

Illya doesn't remember that, he remembers clearly stating the fact, no questions involved. And also he needs a whore, Illya thinks absentmindedly, because Napoleon is at it again- all-too-fast breath, blown pupils and a sheen of cold sweat. Except this time, it still hasn't gone that bad, and yet-

And yet here he was, sprawled over Illya with his faces inches away, red lips quivering and his hands around the back of the Russian's head.

"You said that I am an incubus," Napoleon continued, removing one hand to trace the stubble along Illya's chin, "But I'll have you know, that intimacy is indeed involved, but really, what I get from it? Not semen, that really is too crude. Or souls actually. Want to hazard a guess?"

Illya doesn't. He could hurt Napoleon now with words and Napoleon would not be able to give a nice retort because those would be sensible, appropriate words of a sensible non-pervert. He could get off his back, off this bed, shove Napoleon off, after all, he's much stronger and larger, but he doesn't. Instead, he lets it all happen, his heart beating all too frantically and all too near Napoleon's topless chest.

Napoleon just smiles. And leans into the crook of Illya's neck.

"It's luck," he whispered.

Napoleon is close. Too close. Illya can feel the vibrations against his ear from Napoleon's silken voice, from deep within the man's throat and past his lips. It sends an altogether different vibration which shoots down Illya's spine to where it shouldn't be.

The train of thought distracts him and he doesn't notice that Napoleon has shifted some of his weight off the blonde, to look out the window with a faraway gaze.

"I don't know how well you know this. Or how well the KGB knows it, for that matter," he said slowly, "But why do you think Double 00s are so good at their jobs, even more impossible than we are? Why is it that everyone they get intimate with, becomes so very unfortunate afterwards, dies so shortly after? Those agents are creatures like me, Peril. But even more ruthless. They drain people of all their luck, all of it."

He's going to kill you, his brain tries to insist, you're going to die. But something is screaming at his mind, pushing it out at the door because no, Napoleon would never do that to him, he would never hurt Illya so senselessly. The hand at the back of Illya's head tightens into a grip on his hair and Napoleon's other hand has moved to caressing the Russian's right cheek.

"Although I guess it's too easy, isn't it? If I could just take people's luck and become lucky. No. People lose luck to creatures like me, and then the creatures become a strange mix of unlucky and lucky. To get into the unluckiest of situations but able to escape them with most absurdity and luck."

He should really get up now. Throw Napoleon off and run out of bedroom. Get a gun. Or Waverly. But then Napoleon pins him with a certain hungry gaze and something warm settles into the bottom of Illya's belly, catching his words, betraying his body. His hand twitches, regardless.

"I won't do that to you, Illyushka, drain you of everything I mean" Napoleon reassured, reading all the man's tells, "Besides we're always on the same team right? Shouldn't matter if you're a bit less lucky and I'm more...unluckily lucky. I just need a small sip, I waited so long, I just want to know how you taste..."

Something jolts through Illya.

I just want to know how you taste.

"I am here. Just..to add...to taste collection," he wanted to spit out.

But he doesn't because he's scared that his voice will break halfway through. He's even more scared that he'll break in that other way and see red, even more scared that he would make Napoleon blossom blood red and no, he would never do that, as obnoxious and egotistical and decadent the man may be.

So instead, he stays silent. His jaw tightens, muscles tensing, his eyes a firm stare. He makes up his mind to get out of bed and walk out the door.

The hand shoots out to grab him before his feet have even touched the ground. And for once, thank goodness, Napoleon reads him wrongly.

Napoleon just lets it happen for once, he lets something break out from beyond his usual mask of shameless charm and easy confidence. Even though he just knows he will regret it and will have to deny having ever done that all the way to his grave, he does it anyway.

"Look I- I know how you must feel about me," he choked out, "how the world feels about me. But just a small kiss. That's all I want- well no, I want so much more actually, I want to spend forever with you, I love you Illya, good god. But it's fine, forget I said anything about love, just please, one brief kiss, you can pretend I'm Gaby, look away, close your-"

While the teary-eyes male ranted, Illya felt his hands steady and the words of vitriol he had meant to say just melt away (something about a taste collection?).

He really does talk too much, Illya thinks absentmindedly, cutting the man's scrambling blabber short by turning around and diving in for a burning kiss.

He expects to feel a pull of his luck from deep within him, to feel it sucked out from behind his lips. But instead he just feels a divine warmth wash over him, and shivers with pleasure too deep beyond a kiss or anything like human-to-human contact.

They pull away for breath (an unfortunate necessity), gasping and grinning, then Napoleon leans in to give a normal, human kiss and Illya gets no less lost in it.


End file.
